


Lend me your hand (we'll conquer them all)

by samshinechester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Established Relationship, M/M, SPN J2 Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22000531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samshinechester/pseuds/samshinechester
Summary: True to his word, Dean doesn’t quit.
Relationships: Dean Smith/Sam Wesson, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31
Collections: 2019 Supernatural & CWRPF Holiday Exchange





	Lend me your hand (we'll conquer them all)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marciaelena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/gifts).



So, Wesson quits. He gives his notice in an, uh, unconventional way - water cooler gossip mentions a crowbar and his work phone, maybe a fire hydrant - and he’s out of Sandover before security can catch up with him. According to Dean’s colleagues, that’s the most disappointing part.

“Would’ve paid good money to see Nick toss him on his ass,” is HR Miller’s contribution to the debate. Both Margret and David from Marketing agree on Wesson being a ‘total criminal’, while Production Miller, who was down in IT when Wesson had his breakdown, states in no uncertain terms that ‘he feared for his life’. 

“And what do you think, Smith?” Production Miller asks, and boom, there goes Dean’s plan to fly under the radar. Awesome. At least nobody saw them chumming—

“Hey, weren’t you two friends?”

—or did they. David has always been too smart for his own good. _Just like Sammy,_ Dean thinks and, “No, not really,” he says, looking down at his cup. His break is almost over and it’s still half full of Master Cleanse, which is good for him and whatever, but he would kill for some coffee right now. “Okay, if you’ll excuse me now—”

“Come on, Dean, fess up about Wesson. Any juicy details you feel like sharing with the class?” 

He’s like a dog with a bone, this one, and if he believes he’s better than anyone else just because he and Dean are on a first name basis, well. He’s got another thing coming.

“I’ve got nothing to fess up, David, but I know you’re late with the weekly reports. Again.” Pause. “It’s the third time this month.”

“Burrrn,” Margret says, her interest obviously piqued, and Dean hides a smirk behind his cup. The discussion that follows veers toward safer topics, the Wesson thing forgotten in lieu of work ethics and the exact shade of red David’s ears have turned, allowing Dean to slip away unnoticed.

The truth is that while he likes his job and he has no intention to smoke ghosts for a living - sorry, kid - he also knows that his colleagues are full of shit. If the health benefits at Sandover weren’t so good or if the annual bonus had a couple less zeros, he’d be gone in a flash. Barnson & Co. is still looking for a sales executive after all, and the VP is an old friend from Stanford. He’d even give Dean the corner office.

In his mind’s eye, Dean can already picture it: a new, sleek desk, a couple of tasteful paintings - forget that modern art crap, he wants to know if he’s looking at a person or an umbrella stand, thank you - maybe a fitness chair, some plants… and right next to his PC, a model car. A muscle one, he thinks, as big and badass as they come.

A Mustang or a Chevrolet.

He’s so busy picking out the color and figuring out where the chrome plating should be, that when he pushes open the door to his office he doesn’t really notice anything out of the ordinary. Then Wesson says, “hey, Dean,” and he almost has a heart attack.

“Son of a bitch!”

“Sorry.” 

Wesson doesn’t look sorry at all though. Amused, yes. Sorry, nope. Dean takes a second to be grateful for his reflexes (somehow he managed not to spill his cleanse) and worried about them (his free hand has gone to his waistband, what the hell) before Wesson gets up from Dean’s desk and shuts the door.

‘Bitch, what?’ is on the tip of Dean’s tongue. He swallows it and settles for, “I thought you quit?”

Wesson shrugs. “Yeah, well, I did.”

“Second thoughts?”

“Nah.” Another shrug, followed by the most impressive set of puppy eyes Dean’s ever seen. He never noticed them before, and for some reason, they hit him deep. That’s…odd.

“What is it, then?” he asks, aiming for coolness, for composedness. The Master Cleanse is tasting more and more like shit with every sip he takes, but he forces himself to swallow it all while he regroups and waits for Wesson to say his piece. When it becomes clear that the kid’s in need of further prodding though, Dean plonks the cup on his desk, pitches his voice lower like he does with recalcitrant customers, and adds, “I don’t know how you managed to get through security, but if it’s about the ghost ganking thing again, well—”

“Jeez, Dean, I _know_. You made it abundantly clear the first time around.”

Okay, what the fuck. Wesson’s leaning against the door, his arms crossed on his chest, and his expression has done a 180 in two seconds flat. Forget the puppy eyes, that’s one hell of a bitchface, all pursed lips and narrowed eyes. By all means, it should look ridiculous on a guy like Wesson, who’s built like a quarterback and whose shoulders-to-waist ratio borders to perfection, but. But. 

“Wesson—”

“Sam.” Non-negotiable. “Not Wesson, not Sammy. Sam.”

“All right, _Sam_ , I—”

“It’s about all the rest,” Sam says, cutting him off again. “I mean, I don’t want to force you into anything at all, just— I was thinking, we had a good time together, right? Chemistry. Office romance. Whatever you want to call it.”

“…Oh.”

The silence that falls between them is heavy, and for Dean it’s punctuated with flash of memories. Their elevator meetings, the ghost they wasted together, the mounting sexual tension that got solved in a mutual handjob they had in this very room, on the very desk Wesson was sitting on moments ago. Dean laughing in Sam’s face and basically telling him to get lost afterward, _no siree, I like your dick just fine but I like my benefits better, thank you._

“My—” it comes off as a croak. Dean clears his throat and tries again. “My post-coital manners are a bit rusty, I guess. Um. Sorry?”

And Sam laughs. He does, his head raised toward the ceiling while he cracks up, his dimples out in full force, and Dean, Dean is left standing there, blinking and filled with so many emotions he’s half afraid he’d choke on them. They bloom in rapid succession within his chest - lust, affection, wonder and protectiveness and .awe - but in the end, the only thing Dean knows for certain is that he wants Sam. Wants as in, _tuck the kid away from the world and take care of him,_ and _kill any sonuvvabitch who looks at him wrong_ , and _fuck the living daylights outta him_. Forever and ever, amen.

Of course he can’t really say all that out loud, so he settles for, “Hey, easy, tiger,” and a pat on Sam’s shoulder. “You’ll bust a rib and alert everyone in a fifty foot radius you’re in here.”

Sam shakes his head. “Yeah, sorry, but I’m pretty sure your manners do suck, post-coital or otherwise - and spare me any lame retort you’re about to make, please.”

“All right, all right.” 

Dean’s hand is still lingering on Sam’s shoulder. The fabric of Sam’s shirt is thinner than that godawful polo the company forces all IT folks to wear, and Dean can feel how warm Sam’s body is. How firm. He squeezes a little. 

“Office romance, huh?” 

Sam grins at him. “Looks like it.” Beat. “So, what about coffee later?”

“Oh God, yes.”

He plans on bringing his Master Cleanse along and stick to it, of course, but maybe he could be persuaded to try some of Sam’s.

* 

True to his word, Dean doesn’t quit.

*

It’s an odd life, the one they’re leading. Dean puts in his nine-to-five at Sandover, brushes up his resume and requests an appointment with the Barnson’s VP. Sam camps in Dean’s living room more often than not, eats food straight out of his fridge and fucks him so good that Dean doesn’t even mind the target practice that appeared in the backyard. One of these days he might even try his hand at it too, see if he’s anywhere near as good as Sam at throwing knives.

It’s an odd life, true, but it’s a good one regardless. Domestic with a side of crazy or maybe crazy with a side of domestic. Dean loves it. Next week he’s going to call his parents and tell them he got himself a boyfriend and that he wants them to meet him. Mom won’t be happy about being kept in the dark for so long, but she’ll melt when he tells her about the engagement ring. It’s been burning a hole in Dean’s pocket for days now.

“Hey, babe.” Dean smiles into his phone and clicks ‘send’ on the last email of the day. “I’ll be out of here in ten. Need anything?”

“We’re out of milk. And um, beer. And if you grab a bag or two of rock salt, that’d be great.”

“What, again?”

Sam’s reply gets drowned in a burst of static, then the call drops, leaving Dean with a dead phone. Weird. He’s about to dial Sam again when somebody knocks on his door. 

“Dean?” 

It’s Mr. Adler. Dean’s good mood shrivels and dies, and he knows with a clarity he’s never experienced before that he doesn’t want to hear anything Mr. Adler has to say to him. Anything at all. If Adler opens his mouth, if he says anything at all, then Dean’s world is going to shatter into a million pieces.

It’s inexplicable but somehow Dean just _knows_. He puts down his phone, gets up from his chair and starts to shake his head. 

_No_. 

Mr. Adler smiles, seemingly unperturbed. “Got a minute, son?”

**Author's Note:**

> \- I grabbed your prompt, added some Swesson, sprinkled it with your likes and mixed it all. :)  
> \- Endless thanks to the mods! <3  
> \- Glovered on beta duties (thank you so so much!)  
> \- Mumford & Sons (title)


End file.
